


|with teeth and ambitions bared|

by littlekaracan



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: And By Life I Of Course Mean Gideon, Basically Din Djarin Being Very Mad About Things For 1.4k Words, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Din Djarin's Helmet Crisis, Gen, He Also Perhaps Adopts Grogu Again, I Cannot Stress How Mad At Life He Is In This, post chapter 15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:02:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28035864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlekaracan/pseuds/littlekaracan
Summary: He feels cold. There is an all-encompassing phantom of a gust of wind on his face, and the bitter taste of a drink he didn’t even touch on his tongue, and the smell of a shared mess that he’s never felt before. Most of all, there are the lingering gazes on him.His Creed, in spite of whatever Mayfeld told him, is broken.The worst part of it all is perhaps the fact that he does not regret it.
Relationships: Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Din Djarin
Comments: 38
Kudos: 283





	|with teeth and ambitions bared|

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this after watching ch15 at 5am last night, unbeta'd and barely edited, just my man's rage and discomfort at the removal of his helmet and everything else being projected all over the place. thank you for checking out the fic!!

He feels cold. There is an all-encompassing phantom of a gust of wind on his face, and the bitter taste of a drink he didn’t even touch on his tongue, and the smell of a shared mess that he’s never felt before. Most of all, there are the lingering gazes on him, all dead, all gone, except Mayfeld, who insists he’s seen _nothing_.

It does not bring him much comfort.

He brings up his hands, presses them to the sides of his helmet. He cannot feel anything other than the hard gloves, through them – the smooth surface of the Beskar. The helmet is back on his head, and everything is as it should be, and he still breathes with a deliberate slowness, wary of himself.

Everything had grown so much sharper, when he showed his face. He wishes he never would’ve seen the colour as it was, so vivid once he was bare-faced.

He recalls distant conversations, and his answers are shifting.

His Creed, in spite of whatever Mayfeld told him, is broken.

_Have you ever removed your helmet?_

_Yes._

_Has it ever been removed by others?_

_Once._

_It is as if you are implying a number._

_No. Never, never, never again._

_Are you making a vow?_

_I will be, as soon as I find –_

He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, and nobody can see it. The helmet is secure on his head, air-tight, sealing him in.

And what does it matter, now?

The worst part of it all is perhaps the fact that he does not regret it. He remembers the slight chill in the air when he took it off, so unused to feeling the air rush in, unfiltered, the light flood him, undimmed. He had closed his eyes when the Imperial approached, it felt like all he was was being shattered, and it was true. Something had been lost, then, and lost forever. Every eye on him was a bullet right to his chest.

But he thinks about the little green hands, now, and the terrified big eyes, and him calling a name and the Child answering with a coo, and digging into his chestplate when they slept, and the small palm-prints drawn with dirt on the visor he found after he woke up once, and he does not regret it, he could never regret it, and he would do it again.

He remembers then, faintly, a voice. The Armourer’s, again. He always seems to default to her guidance when he doubts. Lately, his doubts have gone unchecked, but not this time. He trusted her above all else, always, when he was young.

Perhaps, in some way, he still wants to.

_The Resol’nare is part of a Mandalorian’s spirit,_ she had said, once, to a woman whose face he never saw but did glimpse the back of her head as she rocked her barely lucid child in her arms, roaring in helpless rage and sorrow. And their Armourer had knelt down next to her and beckoned over the healers to take the child, and in turn she’d taken the woman’s chin with her own head bowed down as to not look at her. He’d turned away as well. They all knew to. _You know the Creed by heart._

_I know the Creed by heart. I have taken off my helmet,_ the woman said, shaking, and angry, and now Din understands her. _I will not fight against what happens now, but I want all to know that I did not do it in vain. It was ner’ad’ika’s life on the line, and for that, I will not grovel._ 1

_I do not ask you to,_ the Armourer said, and there was the soft brush of Beskar against hair when she put the woman’s helmet back on her head, the forge freezing in shock and disbelief from all equally. _You broke a tenet to keep another when you had no other option. But you understand why we cannot let offenses go._

_I understand._ She sounded almost – tearful, then, and he had been lost; she took her helmet off herself. She knew what was going to happen. Why would she mourn her own choice? _I understand, but—_

_You have kept your child alive. There is no greater elation, no greater relief, to any of us._ He remembers the Armourer’s voice, firm and sure from underneath the helmet, when she helped the woman stand and told her, _I refuse to call you a traitor for what any of us would have done. Look at me, now. A’su Mando’ad gar._ 2

Din remembers standing there, still staring at the ground, unsure if he could look up yet. The Armourer’s amnesty had confused him, perhaps, but he’d accepted it, then, as had the rest of his Covert. Most seemed to agree with the Armourer, nodding and muttering appreciatively among themselves. Some had cradled their own children closer.

He didn’t understand, back then, how someone could make a choice like that. He believed there was always a third option, something unrealistically convenient that would appear at the last second.

Now, he knows. There are no third options, moreover, there are no second chances. If he wants to walk out of the unsurvivable, he must make sacrifices, no matter how gutting. Distantly, he wishes he could apologize to that woman, if she’s still alive, with her child painted in their own blood. He knows better, now, than to doubt if it was worth it.

The Child had reached for him, when he was already too far in the air for him to grab, and cried out with a desperation he never wants to let the little one go through again, and _seven kriffing hells, what is Gideon doing to him_?

Soon enough, he’ll find out. Make sure nothing like it ever happens again.

Manda, he just wants his child to have a damn life.

He catches himself on the possessive but finds that there is nothing to refute. He means all of it. Kaysh ad’ika, _ner’ad’ika,_ he thinks unabashedly, he is going to get him back, and neither of them will be broken once he does.

Focusing on Moff Gideon, he feels the unrelenting spark of anger in his chest grow into a steely determination, simmering underneath his surface, concealing him underneath two walls – the Beskar and his own skin. So far, Gideon has taken everything from him. His family, his home, now his Creed – he’s not letting him take the Child, too.

He enters the cockpit, marches straight to the holocaster. He doesn’t exactly remember what he told Fett, but then he is staring into the blinking hologram, and he knows Gideon can hear him, and he has so many things to tell him, most of which Gideon would most certainly take as threats.

Good. They would, in fact, all be threats.

He settles, in the end, to rip out the shame still nestling in his chest like a weed and finally make a promise to himself. This ends with him and the Child together. By taking the Child, Gideon sealed this for himself. There is nothing he can do but wait for Slave I to catch up, and then, if there is but a scratch anywhere on the Child’s body, Gideon is going to die.

_“Moff Gideon.”_ His voice is colder than Maldo Kreisan ice. “ _You have something I want.”_

Something is crackling in the air as he speaks, and otherwise time is frozen in the ship. His companions are listening to him in silence, but he cannot see them. He sees the Child, first and foremost, and the path ahead – and if that path requires Gideon’s head off his shoulders, then so be it. Battle is in his blood, regardless of what he’s done to disgrace it.

_“You may think you have some idea of what you are in possession of.”_

He won’t let it happen again, he will not have the Child hooked up to strange machines that would drain his life from him, he will never let anyone try and take some sort of M-count from him, he will fire until all his weapons are spent, fight until his knuckles bleed through Beskar – once he gets the Child back, it’s over _his dead body_ that anyone will be able to hurt him.

_“But you do not.”_

He will never let anyone touch a kriffing hair on his head again _._

_“Soon, he will be back with me.”_

He can feel the weight of Fett‘s gaze, he sees Cara‘s quirked eyebrow once she recognizes his speech. Perhaps he‘s ironizing – but he also happens to speak each and every word with utmost promise, each sound a declaration of war, a vow to wage it for as long as it takes until the Child is back in his arms.

_“He means more to me than you will ever know.”_

He was ready to forsake his heritage, he was ready to betray his Creed, defile all that he was – and he did it, because the sudden chill in the air and the heat of a blaster bolt on his face can never compare to losing the Child, to the absence of the bright presence he had never thought he’d miss, not until all the way back when he saw the discarded level handle and rightfully thought himself an abomination for abandoning a child.

He turns, passes Fennec. She steps out of his way, avoiding his eyes, despite the shielding visor. There is something heavy in his presence that she doesn’t want to cross. He isn’t sure he’d want to either.

“We’ll get him back,” Cara calls out to him. He nods but does not halt his step until he is alone, until he is out of the cockpit again, back in his bunk.

Only then and only there does Din Djarin press his hands to his helmet one more time. All there. Never to be lost in this terrifying light again.

White, scorching rage burns bright in his very core as he methodically checks his blasters and then, very very carefully, thumbs at the little metal ball in his pocket.

Gideon will not run from him, of course not – he thinks he’s safe behind the looming shadow of his beloved Empire. That only makes it easier. There is nothing he can do, now, to escape Din’s hunt.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The Resol’nare - The six tenets of the Mandalorian culture.  
> Kaysh ad’ika, ner’ad’ika. - His child, my child.Back to text  
> 2\. "A’su Mando’ad gar." - "You are still a Mandalorian."Back to text  
>   
> hhHA it feels so good being able to write people being angry without mentioning the restrictions of the jedi code every second line. v i n d i c a c i o n  
> thank you so much for reading!! leave a comment if you'd like :>


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